because we’ve met at parties and spoken to each other.’
‘What do you think of her?’
‘I think she’s superb singer, and so did Helmut,’ she answered, deliberately misunderstanding him.
‘And personally?’
‘Personally, I think she’s delightful. Perhaps a bit short on sense of humor at times, but a pleasant person with whom to pass a few hours. And she’s surprisingly intelligent. Most singers are not.’ It was obvious that she was still choosing to misunderstand his questions and wouldn’t give him what he wanted until he asked directly.
‘And the rumors?’
‘I’ve never considered them sufficiently important to give them any thought.’
‘And your husband?’
‘I think he believed them. No, that’s a lie. I know he believed them. He said something to that effect one night. I can’t remember now just what it was he said, but he made it clear that he believed the rumors.’
‘But it wasn’t enough to convince you?’
‘Commissario,’ she said with exaggerated patience, ‘I’m not sure you’ve understood what I’ve been saying. It’s not whether Helmut could or could not convince me of the truth of these rumors. It’s that he couldn’t convince me that they mattered. So I forgot about it until you mentioned it now.’
He gave no sign whatsoever of his approval and, instead, asked, ‘And Santore? Did your husband say anything in particular about him?’
‘Not that I can remember.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘This was a subject we did not agree on. I had no patience with his prejudice, and he knew that, so we avoided, by mutual consent, any discussion of the subject. Helmut was enough of a musician to keep his personal feelings to the side. It was one of the things I loved about him.’
‘Were you faithful to him, Signora?’
It was a question she had clearly been anticipating. ‘Yes, I think I was,’ she said after a long silence.
‘I’m afraid that’s a remark I can’t interpret,’ Brunetti said.
‘It depends, I think, on what you mean by “faithful.”‘
Yes, he supposed so, but he also supposed that the meaning of the word was relatively clear, even in Italy. He was suddenly very tired of this. ‘Did you have sexual relations with anyone else while you were married to him?’
Her answer was immediate. ‘No.’
He knew it was expected of him, so he asked, ‘Then why did you say only that you thought you were?’
‘Nothing. I was simply tired of predictable questions.’
‘And I of unpredictable answers,’ he snapped.
‘Yes, I imagine you would be.’ She smiled, offering a truce.
Since he hadn’t bothered with the charade of the notebook, he couldn’t signal the end of the interview by putting it in his pocket. So he got to his feet and said, ‘There is one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘His papers were brought back to you yesterday morning. I would like your permission to take another look at them.’
‘Isn’t that what you were supposed to do while you had them?’ she asked, making no attempt to hide her irritation.
‘There was some confusion at the Questura. The translators saw them, then they were returned before I saw them. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I’d like to take a look at them now, if I might. I’d also like to speak to your maid. I spoke to her briefly when I came in, but there are some questions I’d like to ask her.’
‘The papers are in Helmut’s office. It’s the second door on your left.’ She chose to ignore his question about the maid and remained seated, not bothering to extend her hand to him. She watched as he left the room, then she went back to waiting for her future.
Brunetti walked down the corridor to the second door. The first thing he saw when he entered the room was the buff envelope of the Questura, sitting on the desk, unopened, still plump with documents. He sat at the desk and pulled the envelope toward him. Only then did he glance out the window and notice the rooftops that soared away from him across the city. In the distance, he could see the steeply pointed bell tower of San Marco and, to his left, the grim facade of the opera house. He pulled his attention away from the window and ripped open the envelope.
The papers, which he had already read in translation, he placed to one side. They concerned, he knew, contracts, engagements, recordings, and he had judged them to be of no importance.
He pulled three photographs from the envelope. Predictably, the report he had read made no mention of photos, probably because there were no words written on them. The first was of Wellauer and his widow, taken at a lake. They appeared tan and healthy, and Brunetti had to remind himself that the man must have been over seventy years old when the photo was taken, for he didn’t look much older than Brunetti, he imagined. The second photo showed a young girl standing by a horse, a docile short thing, as round as it was high. The girl had one hand raised to the bridle of the horse and one foot halfway between the ground and the stirrup. Her head was swung around at an awkward angle, obviously caught off guard by the photographer, who must have called to her just as she was about to mount. She was tall and slender and had her mother’s light hair, which swung out in two long braids under her riding helmet. Taken by surprise, she hadn’t had time to smile and looked curiously somber.
The third photo was of the three of them together. The girl, almost as tall as her mother, but awkward even in repose, stood in the center, the adults a bit behind her, with their arms wrapped around each other. The child
